


Bang

by KrumPuffer



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Boys Kissing, Confessions, Goodbyes, M/M, References to Drugs, Song Inspired
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-07
Updated: 2020-07-07
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:13:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25132192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KrumPuffer/pseuds/KrumPuffer
Summary: This fic is told from Kavinsky's POV.  It is my take on why he is the way he is and his constant battle with being bad but wanting something good, like Ronan.  It is set on the eve of Adams birthday, and his death, which takes place the following day on the 4th of July.
Relationships: Joseph Kavinsky/Ronan Lynch
Comments: 19
Kudos: 34
Collections: TRC Fic Drabbles With Friends!





	Bang

<https://krumpuffera03.tumblr.com/post/627977840645832704/bang-krumpuffer-raven-cycle-maggie>Bang

Inspired by the cover of Mr. Sandman, performed by SYML

11:16 pm, July 2nd. He presses send and watches as the text goes through, **What’s up MOFO** _._ He watches the notification appear, _Delivered._ And now he waits. It’s always a gamble; his poker face forever present, an extension of his very being; _don’t give anything away Kavinsky_ , _don’t let them see_ ; shades on, a cloud of smoke, a cocky joke locked and loaded; _don’t let them see who you are_. Expectations of disappointment flood his drug-infested brain and words echo in his mind, like the honking of a car horn under a bridge, _it was never gonna be you and me. Is that what you thought? It was never gonna be you and me, Kavinsky._

Images swirl, a kaleidoscope of pale skin lined with black ink, an infinite abyss and he wanted to dive in. A _real_ beating heart, eyes that saw; crystal blue oceans; he wanted to be the oil spill that ruined them, fill them with everything black that was his very soul. 

He would die with _or_ for Ronan Lynch.

He flicks his cigarette out the window of the white Mitsubishi and glances down at his phone, the notification has changed from _delivered_ to _read._ Three dots bounce quickly as Ronan responds from miles away, his heartbeats just as quickly, _write back fucker,_ he thinks, and lights another cigarette, taking a deep drawl in of nicotine, the least of his vices. His mother was wrong, turns out he wouldn’t die of cancer after all. He wouldn’t die of any substance. Unless, Ronan Lynch counted as a drug, and he was willing to bet Ronan Lynch was the only thing he was capable of overdosing on.

A buzz, **What?**

**Come to the fairground. It’s your last chance.**

A buzz, **Last chance for what Kavinsky?**

**To be entertained _._**

He sat back, and took a long drag of his cigarette, letting the smoke flow freely from his nostrils; painting him to be the monster that he was. 

His last message sat on _read_. The ball was in Ronan’s court now, although it always was, really. Now he would wait, and do another line, and smoke an entire pack, and play it over in his head what the actual fuck it was he intended to say, if by chance Ronan took the bait and came.

\--

Two headlights appear at the fairgrounds entrance, 11:39 pm. He puts the cigarette out on his forearm, the pain unrecognizable in his current state; high, low, drunk, spun, wrung out like laundry on the wireline. 

The black BMW comes to a stop, parked next to him; Ronan does not get out. Instead his phone buzzes again, **I’m here bitch, entertain me.**

He gets out of his car and comes around to the driver's side window of the BMW, “So glad you could make it, hope I didn’t get you in trouble with your Dick.”

“Fuck off Kavinsky, I have shit to do at midnight, make this quick.”

“Fucking of any manner was not on my to-do list tonight Lynch, but I can arrange it.” He jokes, rubbing his thumb across Ronan’s jawline causing Ronan to let out a hiss, like the very touch of him burned his skin. 

Kavinsky was molten lava and Ronan was the solidified surface that came after. 

Two negatives make a positive right?

“Is that what this is about? Sex? You want me to fuck you Kavinsky? You think if I did you could get me out of your system?”

“Who said anything about _you_ fucking me?”

“What the fuck is this about Kavinsky?”

He stepped back, leaving room for Ronan to get out of the car.

“Follow me to the Ferris wheel.”

“I have shit to do at midnight.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know, you have to get back to your boyfriends. Follow me to the fucking Ferris wheel, Lynch, I’ll have you back to Dick and the trailer trash before your carriage turns back into a pumpkin.”

He reaches out and opens the door, like a true gentleman, offering a hand to Ronan, only to have it slapped away. Ronan steps out into the humid July night air and without any more questions follows him to the old Ferris Wheel. 

The fairground is dark, the days of happy nights spent here, and the smell of cotton candy are long gone. What was left now was just a graveyard of rides and the bones of tickets booths and popcorn stands. They passed by a strip of carnival games, no signs of bright stuffed winnings to be seen, now covered in graffiti, what once said, Gold Fish Toss, now made out to say, Gold Dick Toss and several ill drawn penises spray-painted on the weathered wooden game hut. Ronan shook his head and Kavinsky let out a snicker.

“This place is fucked up; I don’t know why you always come here,” Ronan said, disapprovingly.

“Because _I’m_ fucked up. Or didn’t you know that?” Kavinsky let out in a low growl. 

They reached the Ferris Wheel, several of the seats had broken off, one at the top was hanging on by a thread. This place was a danger zone, and Kavinsky felt at home in its misfortunes. 

He walked over to an old ticket booth and started talking to a phantom ticket booth worker, “Yes, can I get two tickets for the Farrish Wheel, I want to take my date up, so he can see all the beauty that is Henrietta.” He looked back at Ronan, who was standing with his arms crossed on his chest, nonplussed at the little charade Kavinsky was up to.

“What’s wrong sweetheart? Don’t like heights?” he asked, a smug smile reaching to the white-framed sunglasses he wore despite not needing.

Ronan sat on the old metal steps that led up to the Ferris Wheel and took out his phone, checking the time. 

“Kavinsky, stop with the fucking games, what did you bring me here for?”

He made his way next to Ronan and sat beside him, his leg and body pressed against his, surprised Ronan did not pull away.

“I came to clear the mother fucking air.” He said, taking a joint from behind his ear and lighting it, “Smoke?” 

No pun intended.

Ronan took the joint and sucked in a long drag, and before he released the smoke Kavinsky’s lips lazily hovered over his; he released the smoke into Kavinsky’s warm mouth.

“Shotgun bitch.” Kavinsky said as he let the slow stream of second-hand smoke escape his pale lips.

Ronan checked his phone again.

“Fuck. I gotta make a call.”

“After I offered you a ride on the Farrish Wheel you still want to call him? Fuck Lynch, you are an awful date.” 

“It's not a date.” Ronan bit back and jumped off the metal platform. He walked a few steps away and pressed a number on the speed dial. Far enough that Kavinsky found himself straining to hear and wishing he couldn’t hear anything at all.

“Hey, Parrish. I know you don’t like us to make a big deal, but happy birthday,” a pause, “Yeah, I left you something in your nightstand.” A longer pause, “Fucks sake Parrish, it's not a Lamborghini it's just a small gift. If you don’t want it, throw it away I don’t give a shit,” another pause, “Good, I'm happy you like it. Get back to sleep, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Kavinsky checked his phone. It was 12 midnight. His stomach clenched at the thought of meaning so much to Ronan Lynch that he called you at midnight on your birthday. _Fuck that trailer trash scum,_ he thought. 

Ronan sat back down next to him, just as close, leg to leg, and swiped the joint from Kavinsky.

“Well, entertain me motherfucker,” he said, putting the joint between two perfectly pink lips, “or clear the air, whatever the fuck it is you intend to do.”

“It’s your little charity case's birthday?” he asked, and air of jealousy behind it, just enough for Ronan to catch it.

“Yup, sure is.”

“You call him at midnight? Sounds like you like him, homo.”

“Maybe I do, it's more than I can say for how I feel about you.”

“Ouch Lynch, you're breaking my fucking heart.” He snatched the joint back.

“We both know you don’t have a heart Kavinsky. That’s the fucking problem.”

There was a silence. Kavinsky put the joint out by throwing it into his mouth and chewing it up, swallowing it like a piece of candy.

“What if you found out I did have a heart.” He asked, looking out at the vast space of metal scraps and litter only lit by a lucky full moon.

“You don’t. You fucking killed your dad. You killed your friend.”

“Says who?”

“You, rumors, I don’t fucking know. It's just common knowledge.”

“I did. I fucking killed them.”

“Did you bring me here to kill me too? Because I don’t have much to lose, but if you do, just know you won't get away with it this time.” Ronan said, with just enough traces of fear that Kavinsky caught it.

“I’m not going to kill you, calm down ya’ fucking drama queen.”

“Then what?”

“When was the last time you went to confession?”

“What does it matter?”

Kavinsky's hand found Ronan’s. Their fingers tangled. Both similar, long and pale; hands that had held dreams, fists that could shatter them. Ronan did not pull away.

“Why is it never going to be me?” Kavinsky asked, his voice broken. 

“Because you’re a fucking murderer.”

“We’re the same. No one will ever understand you like I do. Not Dick, not Parrish, not your piece of shit brother… hell, not even your dream brother!”

“It’s never going to be you.”

“I _did_ kill them.” Kavinsky said, only this time, it wasn't loaded with threat. This time it sounded like a confession. Was God listening? Was God even real when there were men walking among the earth who could create things in _their_ image?

“I know. You already said that.”

“I was drunk when it happened,” he paused, and cleared his throat, finding his composure in the admission he was finally letting escape his lips, after all the years, after all the rumors, “My dad was in the passenger seat. Proko was in the back. I took a red light and a truck slammed into their side of the car. They died on impact. I walked away without a scratch, still intoxicated.”

Ronan tore his hand away and pushed back, his face full of terror and shock; not a good look on him.

Kavinsky let out a high cackle of a laugh, “You see! Do you see how it works Lynch? You can be what you want! I wanted to be feared. I wanted to be a murderer. Because I _was_ one. YOU can leave out the details, and people will believe what ever the FUCK they want. A monster, a dreamer, a magician… a faggot! It doesn’t fucking matter Lynch. No one will ask the hard questions. No one gives enough shits to dig into the things that make them scared or uncomfortable,” He stood and walked in anxious circles, “So yeah, I killed them, and I died that day too! I have nothing to fucking lose Lynch. **I HAVE NOTHING TO FUCKING LOSE**!” he shouted into the night, his words reverberating off the metal rides. A frenzy of laughter and sobs escaping him. His demons laid to rest.

Confess your sins to God and you are forgiven.

Confess your sins to man and you are healed.

Confess your sins to the Sandman and you are a dream. 

“Fuck Kavinsky, you’re fucked up man.”

“So why not me?” he stopped pacing, staring right at Ronan, a crack in his typically very sure voice, “Why not me now? Now that you know the truth? I’m not afraid. I'll dig. I’ll ask the hard questions, Lynch.”

Ronan’s head dropped between his knees; defeat.

“It just never will be,” he said, his voice low and for the first time unsure. Aware that his answer was not good enough. Aware that this was the only answer he had to offer, “It just won’t be you.”

Kavinsky dropped to his knees before Ronan and took his face into his hands, planting a kiss forcibly on his lips. The crash of the oil hitting the blue of the ocean. A dive into the abyss. One. Last. Time.

For the last time tonight, Ronan did not pull away. He greeted hard lips with hard lips. He met hunger with sustenance. He let this be a kiss and a fight and a farewell. Something was off. They both knew it. This was not a kiss that ended well. None of them ever did. But this had a different doom lingering behind their rapid movements.

Kavinsky pushed off Ronan, falling to his ass on the ground. Both boys panting. Both of their faces hitched in fear and doubt.

“Go to confession tomorrow,” Kavinsky said, never letting his enraged eyes off Ronan’s.

“Why? What the fuck is this all about.”

Kavinsky got to his feet and dusted his pants with his hands, “Ask for forgiveness for your sins Lynch. See you on the fourth. It's going to be a BLAST!” he said with a shout. He was shaking now, and his hands trembled and a tear streamed from under the white frames.

“Kavinsky don’t do anything stupid.”

“I’ll see you later motherfucker.” He said and turned to leave. 

“Kavinsky!” Ronan shouted after him, “Don’t do anything stupid!”

He turned and with fingers mimicking the shape of a gun, he pressed them to his temple and said, “BANG!”


End file.
